


Night Off

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Canon Disabled Character, Caretaking, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I offered her my drink, which was in a plastic cup just like all the cups of beer in the room. If we stopped near a place with good local beer, Senator Ryman sprang for that and we had bottles; otherwise, we had decent but not amazing stuff on tap. George had my cup halfway to her mouth when she realized what </i>I<i> had.</i></p><p>
  <i>"Oh," she said, and took a deep swallow of whiskey before pushing the cup back into my hand. "God, keep that away from me. I still need to work."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"It's my first drink," I said. "Want me to stop?"</i>
</p><p>Set early in <i>Feed</i>.</p><p>Evenings when Georgia Mason is willing to relax are few and far between, especially when there's a major political campaign to cover. Shaun, on the other hand, thinks that's when she needs a break most. Occasionally he even manages to talk her into it.</p><p>(The working title was "in which Georgia is a cute drunk", which may say it all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Off

**Author's Note:**

> Beta work by wildpear.

When I tell people I taunt zombies for a living, I usually get one of two reactions: most people either think it's the coolest thing ever or think I'm a batshit lunatic with a death wish. The only thing _everyone_ , including me, agrees on when it comes to Irwins is that the job's chock-full of danger.

George's job is tame in comparison, even when she comes into hazard zones with me, but her job has hazards of its own that I'm just as glad to avoid. She's the one who gets emailed when someone wants to sue us, and she's the one who has to deal with people who want someone to holler at when they don't like the news, or when they don't like the questions she has to ask in order to _get_ the news.

By extension, now that we were on the road with Senator Ryman's election campaign, she was the one who had to deal with grumpy staff who thought "blogger" was a four-letter word and wanted to make sure we knew their opinion of us. The campaign had been up and running full steam ahead for two weeks, and it seemed like every second day there was somebody who wanted to grill us--meaning George--about our credentials and our intelligence, to try to make her justify our existence.

The dude who cornered George after Ryman's talk--or thought he'd cornered her, anyway--was junior staff, trying to throw his weight around with her to feel better about himself. I would've pitied him if it weren't my sister he was trying to screw with. I might still have pitied him if he'd had any kind of actual reason to be having something out with her and hadn't known what he was getting into. But he was just blustering, _and_ he'd been around us enough to know the smart thing to do--if he absolutely had to prove his manhood by being a dick--would be to go mess with someone else.

He'd managed to get himself all riled over the combination of Mason's Law being a thing that exists and Masons being people he had to work with, which meant he'd actually gotten George's back up, instead of just irritating her a little. George feels pretty strongly about large animal regulation, but that's got nothing on how she feels about people questioning her journalistic integrity.

"The senator hasn't even stated a position on the application of Mason's Law," she was saying. "By definition, that means we haven't covered it, so I'm not clear on what you're criticizing." She took a sip of the wine cooler she'd been carrying around since the after-rally "party" had gotten underway, using it to keep anyone from foisting more drinks off on her. From the set of her shoulders, I got the feeling she might be in the mood to get drunk later, but she sure wasn't going to be doing it now.

"But it's a controversial subject, Miss Mason. You can't count on it not coming up at all."

"I'm not counting on anything," she said. "If it comes up, it comes up, and we'll handle it appropriately."

Unlike George, the staffer hadn't gotten the memo about "don't get drunk around your co-workers". He didn't quite sneer at her, but it was close. "And how exactly do you think _you_ can handle it 'appropriately'? Haven't you ever heard of a conflict of interest?"

George set her drink down, which meant she was done with it. The only way she ever takes her eyes and her hands off anything she's drinking in public is by handing it to me. Drugging people's drinks carries a heavy penalty if you get caught, since it could be a death sentence for the victim, but that doesn't mean it never happens. It just means it's a lot less common than it was when our parents were our age, so I guess even their generation has to admit zombies are good for something.

"Haven't _you_ ever heard of registered biases?" George's tone was shifting from "icy" to "acid" as she got more pissed off. "My brother and I have documented our connection to and respective feelings on Mason's Law extensively."

"But if the senator--"

She interrupted smoothly. " _If_ Senator Ryman mentions it in a context that requires our coverage, we will provide clearly-marked links to said registered biases, which goes well beyond the minimum disclosure requirements."

"But--" he said, and this time she didn't cut him off. She just waited, and his mouth moved a little while he realized he didn't have anything else to say unless he intended to accuse her of outright lying.

"Is that all?" she asked, when she'd given him enough silence to hang himself with. He glared back, turned on his heel, and stalked off. George grimaced and came over to me, putting herself between me and the wall. I automatically angled myself so that she was still visible to the room without being in a position where anyone could just walk right up to her. We've got plenty of practice at making sure she doesn't look like she's hiding while she takes a bit of breathing room.

I offered her my drink, which was in a plastic cup just like all the cups of beer in the room. If we stopped near a place with good local beer, Senator Ryman sprang for that and we had bottles; otherwise, we had decent but not amazing stuff on tap. George had my cup halfway to her mouth when she realized what _I_ had.

"Oh," she said, and took a deep swallow of whiskey before pushing the cup back into my hand. "God, keep that away from me. I still need to work."

"It's my first drink," I said. "Want me to stop?"

"Where did that come from?"

"Tyrone's got a stash. He keeps offering it to me, and I usually say no, so if I ask him for a few drinks' worth now he'll give it to me. Want me to?"

No one should have to think that hard about whether they want to get smashed or not. George leaned against the wall and weighed her options. Ryman had just given a talk that went over well, but it didn't cover a whole lot of new ground. It wouldn't take her long to post her coverage. And the next afternoon we had another local event, so we weren't packing up and moving on first thing in the morning. She wouldn't _have_ to be out of bed until nine, which meant she might let herself get away with sleeping until seven or so if she could convince herself to relax at all tonight.

"You sure?" she asked.

"About Tyrone's stash?" I said, just to mess with her. She knew I knew what the actual question was. "Yeah, don't worry about it. I'll be stone-cold sober by the time you've got your report done. Meet me in the trailer in, what, an hour?"

"Hour and a half." She bumped up against my arm, which for us was some pretty heavy PDA. "Thanks."

"No sweat. Get going. I'll hook you up."

"I'll see if Buffy's crashing in the van again tonight," she said, and headed for the door. Not that it made a huge difference where Buffy was sleeping, in one sense; she had unrestricted access to our shared trailer, and that meant George and I were on a strict "no messing around, never mind sex" diet. But it was no surprise that George wanted to at least know who'd be around her when she was drinking, even if it didn't affect how drunk she let herself get.

What mattered was that I'd be right there with her, sober and armed, keeping her company before she fell asleep and protecting her afterwards.

**********

George made it to the trailer just under two hours later, which was better than I'd expected. She always makes her deadlines--self-imposed and external--and usually with room to spare, but then it takes her a while to peel herself away from the computer. For every task she finishes, five more pop up.

"Buffy says she's staying in the van," she reported, checking the lock on the door as she closed it.

"Okay. And before you ask, yes, Tyrone gave me what turns out to be a shocking amount of booze." I hoisted the half-full whiskey bottle and held it up to the light, admiring the amber sheen.

"What did you have to do for that?" George laughed, but there was a wound-tight edge to it that made me extra grateful for Tyrone's goodwill. In my unscientific but expert opinion, what she needed was to get laid and then thoroughly drunk, in that order. Hopefully getting fairly tipsy without the sex prelude would be a passable substitute. "You know you're not supposed to bribe people with sexual favors without consulting me."

I smirked at her. "Nice to know you think my body's such a valuable commodity. Which I assume you're not taking advantage of."

"Sadly, you have to go to waste for another night," she said.

"Figured as much." I gave her a rueful look.

"Tell me about it." She started rummaging through her luggage for something to wear to bed. "Remind me to repack my clothes soon? I can't find anything."

"Half of your stuff's probably in my bags by now." I slouched back comfortably in my chair and watched her search. Her clean professional clothes were all packed in one spot, but everything else wound up in whichever bag one of us shoved it in. She gave me a tolerant smile, fully aware that the reason I wasn't helping was because she was shucking her current outfit as she went.

George teases me about how much I enjoy looking at her, but I figure it's a good sign that we've been sleeping together for nearly seven years and I still love watching her clothes come off. Barefoot and dressed only in her slacks and bra? A fantastic look, as far as I'm concerned. Nightclothes are equally good, for a different reason; they're no guarantee that she's going to lie down, never mind with me, but they're a start.

She successfully unearthed a t-shirt and what I was pretty sure were technically yoga pants--from my suitcase, sure enough--and finished changing with the brisk efficiency born of hundreds of sterilization cycles. Her worn clothing stayed where she'd dropped it, in the name of being able to riffle the pockets in the morning and get all her equipment transferred to tomorrow's clothes.

The last step was a meticulous inspection of her gun, which she carefully set within reach. Things would have to go utterly to shit before she'd touch it once she had more than one drink in her, but neither of us has _ever_ been drunk enough to not know exactly where our weapons are.

By the time she was finished I had a generous drink poured for her. She knocked it back in two swallows and offered me the glass for a refill.

"Thanks," she said when I handed it back to her. This time she made herself comfortable on her bed, sitting cross-legged against the wall. Her next sip was slow and much more relaxed, tasting the whiskey properly.

I killed the lights and joined her there, putting a hand on her thigh. "One of these days you're gonna have to take some responsibility for your life, George."

"I know. You must be so sick of dragging my drunk ass out of bars and telling me I have work in the morning."

" _Exactly._ God, woman, get it together."

She drank some more and made a contented noise. "This stuff is strong," she noted. "You should probably cut me off after this."

"Gotcha." She was erring on the side of caution--it was probably about four drinks' worth I'd poured for her, all told--but that was about what I'd expected, and she was drinking it all in a short enough period of time that it was better to be safe. Relaxing now was good; risking a hangover or something in the morning, not so much.

I made sure the bottle was tightly sealed and put it on the floor, and she let me take her sunglasses and set them aside safely. "Scoot forward," I said.

George obliged, letting me take her place right against the wall so she could lean back against me. The trailer was essentially dark, and I'd run a basic security check before she'd finished work. We could afford some coziness, as long as I stayed alert for potential interruptions.

We didn't talk much; any conversation would probably end up on the subject of work, and I was determined to keep that at bay for the rest of the night. After George emptied her glass again, I rubbed her shoulders and neck for a little while, frowning at how tight her muscles were.

It was natural for that to lead to kissing her, from the nape of her neck to the base of her skull, and turning her a little to kiss her earlobe. Her body went taut when I unthinkingly nibbled the curve of her ear. "Sorry." I tightened my arms around her, trying to make the hug apologetic. "Too much."

"Too much," she agreed, refraining from pointing out that as the sober one, _I_ was supposed to be enforcing the no-sex thing, not making her want it. "Are you sleepy?"

"Not yet."

"Help me dye my hair?"

"Right now?"

George may be honest to a fault, but even she speaks more frankly when she's intoxicated. "It'll probably be a while before I let myself carve out some downtime again."

I grimaced and passed her sunglasses back to her. "Too true. Okay, get up."

**********

Any bathroom in a trailer is going to be on the small side, but ours was well designed enough that we had room to turn around. There was even a bathtub below the shower--a design that had some Japanese ancestry a generation or two back, making it deep enough to soak in while taking up a minimal footprint in the room. Neither of us had taken the time to try it out, but it was neat having it there.

George stuck her head under the faucet in the sink while I found her stash of dye. Her hair had gotten just long enough that she could wring some water out of it, which made her scowl at her reflection. The length was going to bug her until she got a chance to trim it, but I wasn't inclined to suggest that she take care of _that_ when she'd been drinking.

"Don't make faces like that at my sister," I ordered, and swiped the towel she was holding. "Sit."

"I said _help_ me, not do it for me." Good thing she was protesting on principle, because in her current state she looked anything but authoritative: she'd abandoned her yoga pants to protect them from dye spatter, leaving her in her t-shirt and underwear; water was trickling down the back of her neck; and she was ever-so-slightly wobbly from the booze.

"Just sit down, lush."

George sat on the edge of the tub with a flounce--impressive, given the confines of the room. I draped the towel over her head and reached past her to plug the drain and start water running. She peered through the folds of the towel. "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like? If you're sitting there, you might as well soak your feet."

The shape of the tub meant the water was already up to her ankles, so I shut the tap off and reclaimed control of the towel, tousling her hair until it was only damp.

George giggled quietly and kicked her feet, splashing. "I've always wanted a valet." Oh, yeah, she was drunk. She'd been smart to cut herself off; she's never been a heavy drinker, and we'd spent the last few months working so hard that she'd been indulging even less than usual. Her tolerance had plainly dropped.

"You don't have a valet. You have a babysitter."

She craned her head around to look at me. At that angle I could--just barely--see over the frames of her sunglasses, catching a glimpse of her eyes. "This was your idea, so you don't get to poke fun at the drunk girl."

"I'm distracting myself from how badly I want to _kiss_ the drunk girl."

"Is it working?" she asked, with an earnestness that rarely surfaces when she's sober. Alcohol doesn't tear down her scrupulously-maintained walls, but it cracks them.

"Nope, not really."

"So kiss me."

The tub was barely long enough for me to sit beside her. We made it work. "One kiss," I said.

"Then we'd better make it good."

We did. George leaned into me and kissed my upper and lower lips separately, light and playful. Her mouth was warm and whiskey-tinged and much, much too inviting--especially when she fisted both hands in my shirt, holding me in place so she could take her time.

"It's still one kiss as long as our mouths are touching," she said, remarkably clearly for a tipsy woman whose lips were still pressed against mine.

"You're making this hard," I told her. "And do not make the obvious and accurate dick joke. Just let me dye your hair."

"Okay." She let go of my shirt immediately and squeezed my hand. "Sorry."

"You are not."

"I'm trying to be." There was that earnest note again.

I touched her face, rubbing my thumb over her cheekbone. She'd lost weight since we'd hit the road--not a lot, probably not enough that anyone but me would notice, but I couldn't _not_ notice.

There's a paradox for you: I love seeing George all fired up over something; I hate how sometimes that fire starts burning her away when sleep and meals fall by the wayside. She's like a prophet or an anchorite sometimes, channeling her god of truth, and the stories Buffy tells about those people never end well. And the thing about stories? It doesn't always matter if they're not literally true.

Sometimes when she gets like that I sit back and bask in her zeal. Other times, I offer her anything I can think of--food, sex, whatever--to ground her a little, remind her that she's more than a vehicle for a story.

"I wish you could relax more often," I said.

"I know." George sighed, and drunk or not, this time she was serious. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." I kissed her forehead and stood back up. "Just kick ass and then let me talk you into a vacation once we've seen our boy Ryman to the White House."

"What's a 'vacation'?"

I snapped plastic gloves on and started combining the dye chemicals. "You know how to use a dictionary. Don't make me do _everything_ around here."

**********

Getting the dye into her hair took almost no time, even with her hair long enough that it was threatening to curl. Usually she does most of it herself and calls me in to take a quick look under the white lights to make sure she got her roots, since UV doesn't give her a good look at the color distribution; with me doing it, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands to her face for the duration. After that it was just a matter of waiting while the color set and then rinsing her hair until the water ran clear.

It was still past one A.M. by the time we finished and I could finally say, "Maybe you should get some sleep."

"You," George said, enunciating carefully, "are shamelessly taking advantage of my being drunk to make me go to bed without an argument."

"And if you keep talking about it, you're going to rob me of that joy by sounding like you're arguing. Give me my moment of triumph here."

"Oh, fine. Fuss away."

If I'd had any doubts about how exhausted she was, they would've been dispelled by how agreeably she drank the water I brought her and let me tuck her in. "I set the alarms for eight," I said, using my best "don't argue with me, young lady" tone, which sometimes entertains her enough that she cooperates. This was one of those times; she _hmphed_ under her breath but didn't ask me to set her alarm earlier. "I'll even make sure you're up."

"Thanks. Now you go to bed, too."

"I wasn't planning to sit here in the dark and stare at nothing." I bent and kissed the tip of her nose, then her mouth.

George laughed. "One kiss, you said."

"Changed my mind. Good night."

I lay down on my own bed and listened to the sounds of activity around the trailer--mostly good-natured voices, with a bit of yelling here and there that was quickly hushed. Most nights I'd be twitchy about not being out there contributing to the noise, but it was different when George was sleeping nearby, instead of working.

Maybe it's just that we don't get to share a room, never mind a bed, often enough; maybe it's that she's not exactly a calming influence when she's awake, no matter what she's up to. The reasons don't really matter. I kept listening, and eventually the noises stopped, because I was asleep too.


End file.
